


The 12 Step Program

by galaxiestoexplore



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Marauders era, Mentions of addiction, One Shot, Possibly Unrequited Love, Sirius Just Thinks Really Hard for 3000 words, Sirius doesn't think he deserves Remus, i promise it's not as heavy as it sounds... probably, self-hate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-07-29 20:24:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7698220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galaxiestoexplore/pseuds/galaxiestoexplore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sirius Black has a sirius addiction... to his best friend, Remus Lupin. Can the 12-Step Program help absolve him of it?<br/>One-shot; takes place during one summer afternoon at Number 12 Grimmauld Place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The 12 Step Program

**Author's Note:**

> Nothing belongs to me; the characters & universe are Queen J.K.'s, and the 12 Steps hail from http://www.12step.org/the-12-steps/

Regulus’ door was locked, but I had learned that locked didn’t mean secure when I was still very small.  
Nothing was secure in our house. There was nowhere safe from my parents; and, by extension, nowhere safe from me. After all, I’d only spent my entire life trying to avoid them.  
The door eased open silently with a few fumblings of an unbent paper clip, and I thanked Laverna, goddess of theft, that my brother cared enough to charm his door not to squeak.  
I’d favored the ancient deities as of late, because God-with-a-capital-G belonged to my parents (and bored Sunday mornings stuffed into a suit, and dull chatter between all of London’s upper-class wizarding families). By contrast, the old gods belonged to a boy with messy black hair and specs, a boy fascinated by the old tales of intrigue (and shocking amounts of adultery). The stories were almost deliciously rebellious.  
I found the brochure I was seeking, hidden deep in a drawer underneath a pair of thick socks which my sibling particularly despised.  
The door again closed and locked, I slipped out— only catching my breath when I was safe, alone on my bed with the door locked (“Irony,” my best friend’s voice muttered in my head).  
A couple of years ago, Regulus had gotten in some trouble over the summer holiday. Something to do with illegal substances— I didn’t know the details. My parents’s doing, obviously (They ran things that way—need-to-know. Behind closed doors. Under the carpet. Or whatever.)  
Anyway, it didn’t really matter. All that did was that I’d gotten my hands on this brochure (“Twelve Steps to Overcoming Addictions”), and it hadn’t even cost me any blood.  
I needed it. Because every night when I closed my eyes, I smelled oak and chocolate, dust and soap. Two green eyes blinked lazily over at me, scars traced across cheeks, wrists, arms.  
I was addicted, all right, and I needed to fix it before it got out of hand.  
Brochure open, I spread myself across the bed, twelve Roman numerals outlining my thoughts. This had to work. I mean, it had for other addicts, right?

***  
i. Admit that you are powerless over your addiction— that your life has become unmanageable.

Monday morning thoughts:  
Remus Lupin’s hair flopping in his eyes as he bent over a book.

Tuesday afternoon thoughts:  
Remus Lupin’s sweater paws clasped around his textbooks, old leather and soft wool.

Wednesday night thoughts:  
Remus Lupin’s grin, more devilish than most professors would ever believe, blazing bright as paper airplanes swirled lazily above our heads, the clock chiming eleven.

Thursday evening thoughts:  
Remus Lupin, asleep early in the common room, with the firelight dancing over his features, telling stories of wild fortunes and dashing bravery in a language nobody spoke.

Friday afternoon thoughts:  
Remus Lupin leaning against a tree near the lake, staring out at a group of girls shouting and giggling on broomsticks, and an unmistakeable tightening in my stomach. A burning desire for him to turn his eyes on me instead, and smile.

Saturday evening thoughts:  
Remus Lupin laughing at dinner, his arm around James’ shoulder. A mental snapshot to save and ponder later.

Sunday morning thoughts:  
Remus Lupin with his feet up on a cushy chair and a book held high above his head, reading it slumped over the couch.

rinse & repeat.

My life was unmanageable all right. I couldn’t go five minutes without thinking, Remus, Remus, Remus.

***  
ii. Come to believe that a Power greater than yourself could restore you to sanity.

Is Professor McGonagall a Power greater than myself? I wondered.  
Had she ever pined over someone while they were muddy and snoring at the foot of her bed, smothered in leaves and their own blood?  
Had she ever wished that someone would shove her gently up against pieces of furniture and kiss her until she couldn’t breathe?  
I really couldn’t imagine old Minnie doing that. Wiser than I, indeed. How she could help me with my problem, though, I failed to see.  
Perhaps I was looking in the wrong place. I hesitated to let my parents’ God help me out (I refused to let Him touch my feelings for Remus), but perhaps the Classic deities could.  
Artemis, goddess of the hunt.  
A maiden (sworn virgin, or something like that). Did her strength come from asexuality, or from self-denial? I couldn’t remember.  
James would know. If only he were here…

***  
iii. Make a decision to turn your will & life over to the care of God as you understand God.

I didn’t believe in a benevolent God. At least… not the way the people I’d grown up with seemed to. Once I’d gotten old enough, I wasn’t really sure that they actually did either. To be honest, it seemed like London’s higher classes thought of themselves as gods.  
So praying for a deity to care for me might be a stretch.  
But the universe… maybe it would sort things out for me.  
It couldn’t hurt to hope.

***  
iv. Make a searching and fearless moral inventory of yourself.

Well, this was going to be unpleasant.  
What does a “searching and fearless moral inventory of yourself” even mean? Am I making a list of all my faults?  
Hmm.  
Here goes, I suppose.

 

Ten Things I Hate About Myself  
My family (does that even count?) and their stupid pure-blood rhetoric. And the fact that I was still spouting it like a bigoted fool when I first got to school.  
My height— Remus (no, he can’t be my reference point for everything) is like four inches taller than me. That’s ridiculous.  
Hang on, that wasn’t a moral point. I’m getting off track here.  
Morality… sometimes I think I still treat people as if I’m better than them. Like I’m still looking down my long Black nose at the whole world. Makes me want to throw up when I realize I’m doing it.  
I think I might’ve made McGonagall cry one time. I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone that. It’s my greatest shame.  
Actually, I think my queerness might be.  
Do I have internalized homophobia?  
Remus would be ashamed of me. Remus is always talking about stuff like that, like social justice and gender identities, and, Remus…  
I’m getting off track again.  
Peter said that the stuff the Marauders do, the stuff we do, scares him sometimes. When he was drunk, at 2 am, during winter holiday. I was the only other one who was still awake. I mean… maybe the stuff we do should scare me too. But I think… whatever happens to me if we don’t do it, if I don’t rebel… if I turn out like my family… I think that scares me more.

Okay, you know what? I’m never doing that again. That was horrible, and now I just feel kind of weird about myself. Thanks a lot, 12 Steps.  
Moving on.

***

v. Admit to God, to yourself, & to another human being the exact nature of your wrongs.

Dear James, I think I’m in love with Remus.  
Dearest James, light of my life, best faux-brother a boy could ask for, I need to tell you something.  
I’m gay.  
I like a boy.  
I like our boy.  
I wish Remus was

…I can’t tell him.  
Not because I don’t think he’d be totally fine with it— I know he would. Probably.  
I just can’t.

Dear…  
Dear Professor McGonagall.  
(I’ve already admitted to myself that I think she’s a higher power, so I feel it would be appropriate to confess to her as well, even if I just burn this letter instead of actually sending it.)  
Dear Minnie-McG,  
It’s your favorite student.  
I’ve got to tell you something. It’s about Remus. I think you might already know.  
I think…  
I think I’m in love with him. Like, really in love with him. Like… I’ve thought about what it would be like to have children with him. I’ve thought about what it would be like to die next to him. (It would be an honor, and we would be holding hands and saving the world.)  
And I need to stop.  
I need to get rid of these thoughts, because otherwise they’re going to kill me (Or else my parents will).  
Remus deserves someone so much better than me. He doesn’t even like me *that* way.  
He can’t. How could he resist otherwise, sleeping right next to me every night? I know what I’m like, Minnie. Damn near irresistible. I’m just extremely attractive, Professor, and I’ve acknowledged this fact. It’s a great burden.  
Anyway, I’m writing because I need to tell someone, and you’re maybe the best listener I know, when you’re not telling me off for putting slugs in Snivellus’ soup (come on though, bribing the house-elves was brilliant and you know it.)  
So… that’s it, I guess. Thanks for listening.  
Love from ~your favorite student~,  
S. B.

So that’s done.

…The letter made a lot of very nice-smelling smoke.

I figured McG counted as a human and as a god, because let’s face it, that’s what she was. Besides, Minerva was the goddess of like, crafting and wisdom, or whatever (thanks James), so I could always stretch it and say that I was confessing to her too.

***

vi. Be ready to have God remove these defects of character.

If I was continuing this stupid metaphor about my professor being a goddess, then this step was just me being a-ok with McG ridding me of any romantic feelings for my best friend. Which sounded kind of weird, actually.  
But I was sick of thinking of him all the time (liar, liar, liar), so I was ready.

Oh, who was I kidding. I didn’t think I’d ever been less ready to meet anything head-on in my life. I wasn’t sure I could face a kitten at that moment. My head was high in the clouds, deep in the Mariana Trench, spinning in a dark room next to a boy with tousled hair and chocolate smiles.

***

vii. Humbly ask God to remove your shortcomings.

I’d gone this far on the list without addressing my parents’ capital-G divine Father. I wasn’t about to start breaking that chain.

So… someone else then. Someone besides McG, because she’d done enough for me.  
One of James’ Greek Gods, then.

Dear… Artemis,  
I need some help.  
You’re the goddess of the hunt. I’m a dog, at least sort of. That’s one of your symbols, right?  
Anyway, I thought that since you’re a “maiden”, maybe you could assist me. You know,take away my desire. Or whatever.  
See, Arty (if I may take the liberty of calling you that), there’s this guy.  
He’s…  
Everything.  
He’s ridiculous. He’s like, a librarian. He wears brown, on purpose. And… elbow patches? It’s horrific.  
And I think I love him, Arty. I shouldn’t.  
He’s too good for a boy with a family like mine. He’s too good for a boy with a gray heart. He’s too good, period.  
Please help.

Love (or not, hopefully),  
Sirius Orion Black (your favorite S-O-B, quite literally, in multiple senses)

How many more steps was this thing?

I didn’t feel any less moony about Moonpie. If anything, all this thinking about him was making it worse.  
Lord, I hoped this worked.

***

viii. Make a list of all persons you have harmed, and become willing to make amends to them all.

This addiction was mostly harming me. So I didn’t see why I needed to make amends with anyone (after all, the only person I had ever really “harmed” was Snivellus. And there was no way I was making up with him).  
I decided to skip the step.

***

ix. Make direct amends to such people whenever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.

Well… maybe I did need to forgive myself. I mean… I’d been beating myself up pretty hard about this (About everything).

It’s okay, Sirius. You’re okay. (Siriusly.)  
It’s alright to like boys. You know that, right?  
But it feels so wrong.  
That’s Walburga talking, and you know it.  
But— I’m scared.  
So is everyone. Be brave, Sirius. We’re the most attractive boy at our school, remember? Maybe the world. (Seriously, it could be true.)  
I— I’ll try.

Talking to yourself in your head is really goddamn weird.

***

x. Continue to take personal inventory and when you are wrong, promptly admit it.

The words, black against the cream of the paper, activated some feeling I’d been trying to keep down. I closed my eyes, letting it wash over me, letting it batter me down into my ugly comforter.  
I am wrong.  
Not in the sense that I’d made a mistake (though I’d made too many to count); but in the sense that I, myself, by the act of existing, was creating havoc in the order of things.  
I’m wrong.  
I shouldn’t be here.  
There should be an obedient boy, one who listens to his parents and doesn’t make friends with Indian boys who smell like spices and home; chubby boys with anxious smiles; boys with scars on their wrists; that boy, the one who should be me, he is right and I am…  
Broken.  
Remus broke me open, set me on fire, made me feel like it was all okay.  
Remus’ voice in my head, telling me to forgive myself.  
Remus, always there for me…  
Kind hands, open heart, nothing more.  
And God, it hurt.

***

xi. Seek through prayer and meditation to improve your conscious contact with God as you understand God, praying only for knowledge of God’s will for us and the power to carry that out.

What did the universe want for me?  
How did I keep messing everything up? Tradition, schoolwork, friendships. I was a hurricane, and nothing was safe. I was a fire, unable to be put out. I was a rebel without a cause.  
I was a fucking disaster.  
If that was my destiny, then maybe I should leave. Minimize the damage. That was a power I did have over my life.  
If you’ve got a bomb about to go off, you throw it in the ocean or in a desert or out into space. You put it somewhere it can’t harm anyone else.

South America has warm weather.

But no— I couldn’t do that. Couldn’t run away from everything. If I’d absorbed anything from my awful parents, it was a ridiculous sense of Black-family honor.  
Can’t be a coward, can’t look like a coward, can’t run away, can’t leave people behind that I love. (And even though I thought that they’d be better off without me, I knew it would still ruin the Marauders if I left without saying goodbye.)

Besides, what would everyone else in our year do during their free time if they couldn’t daydream about me anymore?

***

xii. Have a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps, then try to carry the message to other addicts and to practice these principles in all our affairs.

The last step. Finally.  
I sat up, shook my head to clear the cobwebs, checked the clock.

I’d been lying on my bed, thinking, for four hours.

But hey, it was better than interacting with the rest of my family, so I didn’t really care.  
However… I’d gotten to the end of the program. And I didn’t feel any different. I didn’t think I’d really had any kind of “awakening”, except maybe between the last two steps, when I’d fallen asleep for a couple of minutes, feeling down and lost, and then woken up. (Somehow, I didn’t think that counted.)

I thought about Remus and grinned, then mentally slapped myself for showing outward emotion. That at least was exactly the same reaction as before any of this twelve-step nonsense.

If I was being honest with myself here, the problem wasn’t the steps— or even the fact that my “addiction” didn’t have anything to do with the kinds the brochure had been designed to combat.  
The problem was that I didn’t want to give up thinking about him. The problem was that I wasn’t ready to let go.  
The problem was that despite my internalized homophobia and deflated sense of self-worth, I still couldn’t detach myself from the brightest spot(s) in my life. I couldn’t move to South America; I couldn’t even leave Hogwarts. Maybe that was a bit selfish of me… but maybe it was good too.

I decided to compose a new letter in my head. One that I might even send, someday.  
Dear Remus,  
I think I’m in love with you. You’re my best friend, the best person I know. You’re beautiful, even the scars you hate. They’re like pen strokes, like art, like life couldn’t let you be blank. You’re warmth and chocolate and autumn and parchment crinkling, and just thinking of you makes me ridiculously poetic.  
Moony, I would die for you.  
Well, that’s pretty much as romantic as I can get. I’m going down on one knee and proposing, Moons. You are the light of my life, my sun, my stars. Please, please, love me back.

I could hear Remus’ voice in my head, telling me dryly that I was being overdramatic.  
It only made my desire to slow-dance with him get stronger.

I was a lost cause, truly.  
But maybe that was okay. Maybe that was acceptable. Maybe someday he’d even feel the same way about me.

Huh. Perhaps I really had had a spiritual awakening… though definitely not the one the pamphlet’s author had been trying to inspire.

xxx

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
